I hold three cards in my hand. Not one of which is closer to my chest than the others. I will not reveal my secrets. I will not let go of my burdens. To my deathbed I shall carry these. I shall package them all up nice and neat in my hanging baskets of pomp and circumstance. I’ll get the dogs lined up on the carpet. Their hair freshly cleaned and combed. It’s all a facade. It’s all part of the show. It’s all part of this dream I’ve been having for years. A dream that’s plagued my hours awake. A dream in which I wander around on a mountain of metaphors looking for the setting sun. A dream where direction is useless. Is it a dream, though? Is it my subconscious? Where am I? How did I get here?